


This Is Not a George A. Romero Production

by Brigantine



Category: due South
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-31
Updated: 2011-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-23 07:37:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/247808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brigantine/pseuds/Brigantine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not the day the world ends.  But Chicago gets a little messy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Not a George A. Romero Production

**Author's Note:**

> Snippet challenge. Prompt = "zombie."

Ray, Fraser, Diefenbaker and about forty plague victims, the latter befuddled and ravenous, were holed up at Koelsch's. Dief circled the small diner for accidental discards, while Ray and Fraser kept order, at the same time avoiding the plague victims' unsettling tendency to fondle strangers and lick damn near anything.

The Chicago City Council and Mayor's office were in a panic, working feverishly to replenish essential resources. According to the news, Wednesday was the best they could offer. Meantime, everybody was doing the best they could with what they had until the mutant virus ran its course.

Traffic signals had ceased to have meaning as jittery drivers rode their brakes, trying to avoid running over pedestrians wandering distractedly down the middle of the road in the dark.

A blue-and-white cruised the neighborhood, its lights flashing silently. The driver slowed and his partner turned a spotlight on the long front windows of Henderson's House of Food. The light glinted off a dozen scattered grocery carts, the wanton mess of a burst five-pound bag of pure cane sugar.

"Gettin' low on flour and eggs," Mrs. Koelsch warned, resting flour-dusted elbows on the counter and easily fending off the slow, curious groping of a once-respectable calculus teacher. "We'll be needing fruit soon, maybe coffee."

Ray was startled by a loud thump against the big window at the front of the diner. Renfield Turnbull, his hat askew, uniform smudged, sprawled against the glass, goggling hungrily. The afflicted constable licked a long, drooly trail over the "e" in "Koelsch's," and stared in at Ray mournfully.

"Eeeww," Ray said.

Turnbull moaned hopefully, _"Piiiee?"_

 _"Piiiiiieee,"_ answered the diner's congregation contentedly.

The little bell on the door of Koelsch's All-Nite diner jingled a welcome as Fraser opened it and beckoned Turnbull inside.

 

\--#--


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